


Safe Word

by comtessedebussy



Category: Supernatural
Genre: BDSM, Blood, Bondage, Fluff and Angst, Knifeplay, M/M, Pain, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Safewords
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-18
Updated: 2012-11-18
Packaged: 2017-11-18 23:09:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/566297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/comtessedebussy/pseuds/comtessedebussy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They have a safe word. But Dean won't use it. Using it would mean breaking. Surrender. And he didn't break for 30 years in Hell.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Safe Word

“So this…phenomenon entitled ‘BSDM’ – “ Castiel begins.

“BDSM,” Dean corrects with an eyeroll.

“What I don’t understand about it is why somebody would willingly be hurt. Or why someone might want to hurt the one they profess to care for? It is utterly contradictory – “

“Well, it’s about trust,” Dean says. “You trust someone to tie you up and hurt you and you know they’ll stop if you ask. You’re putting yourself in somebody else’s power because it’s reassuring.”

“Yes, but pain is bad, no? It is the opposite of pleasure.”

Dean shrugs.

“There’s different kinds of pain. Sometimes it hurts in a way that feels good. Satisfying.”

Castiel looks confused, so Dean shrugs again, trying to make his suggestion come off as nonchalantly as possible.

“We can try it, if you’d like. You can…tie me up, or whatever.”

Castiel looks confused again.

“But Dean. I don’t need ropes or handcuffs. You know I can just – “ Castiel raises his hand, and Dean is reminded yet again of the immense chasm between him and Cas. For all of Castiel’s love and devotion, he is a being of pure, raw, power, who could reduce Dean to utter helplessness with a flick of the wrist. Though Dean doesn’t like admitting it to himself, it’s a thought that’s gotten him off once or twice.

“Well, I guess that saves us a trip to the sex store, then. You can just use your angel mojo,” he jokes. 

Castiel tilts his head to the side.

“Would you like that, Dean? You want me to hurt you?” he’s still looking confused and it’s not helping because Dean’s suddenly incredibly turned on. Just discussing kinky shit always makes his cock give an interested twitch and somehow, despite the awkwardness of explaining it to Castiel he’s feeling the arousal creep up his body.

“yeah,” he breathes. “Yeah. Use those angel powers of yours. Do whatever you want, Cas, you can just pretend you’re mad at me or something – “  
“And if I’m really hurting you?”

“That’s why you have…well, they call it a safe word. It’s a word I’d say to make you, you know, stop.”

“What word would you like to use, Dean?”

Dean shrugs.

“I dunno, I – “ he’s never tried this kind of thing before, and every time he’s considered what kind of word he might use, they’ve all sounded ridiculous. “surprise” or “commodore” or “bananas” would all just kill the mood completely and he’d be too self-conscious to even say them. “Just, I dunno, ‘stop’?”

“That’s not very creative, Dean,” Cas says.

“Yeah well you think of a better one, Cas, since you’re the expert,” Dean shoots back angrily. “Besides, since when does creativity – “ he stops talking when he realizes he’s pinned to the bed, and, well, naked.

“You son of a – “ he starts, more amused and angry that Cas has gotten the hang of it so quickly.

“Shut up, Dean,” Cas says. It’s one of the strangest expressions he’s seen come out of Castiel.

“Make me,” he breathes as Castiel settles on top of him in the blink of an eye.

He feels the pressure of a knife against his skin, the sharp edge slicing into it. No, not a knife, just Castiel, who can slice skin with just a thought, and it feels oh so real, like a tangible blade being dragged through his flesh. Castiel leans down to kiss him deeply, knife digging into Dean’s hip as he does so, the pain a sudden explosion as the knife drives deeper and the kiss gets deeper. Dean squirms, refusing to break the kiss as the knife bites insistently into him.

His eyes are closed, his head thrown back, as Castiel continues, kissing and cutting, suckling on one nipple while he cuts the skin around the other one, drowning Dean in two extremes of feeling. He’s licking the blood from one cut as he makes another, mouthing kisses down Dean’s torso as he cuts into the sensitive skin of the shoulder. Dean’s lost, drowning, unsure of which sensation to concentrate on, the sublime way that Cas is running his tongue over Dean’s skin or the sting cut he feels on another hip. Then Cas drives the (imaginary) knife deeper, dragging it from shoulder to chest, and Dean clenches his fists, teeth gritted; he waits for whatever comes next, body taut, the muscles of his abdomen clenched and his legs frozen in place, waiting to endure. The knife trails further and he breathes through gritted teeth.

“Dean?” Castiel asks.

Dean opens his eyes, blinking a few times to focus on Cas peering down inquisitively. He realizes how tense he is, opening his fists, willing his body to relax.  
“You’re supposed to say if I’m hurting you,” Cas points out, looking utterly lost.

“That’s the point, though. It’s supposed to hurt.”

Cas shakes his head. “Not like that. I’m _hurting_ you, Dean. Why didn’t you say so?”

Dean stares at Cas for a few seconds.

“I – I can’t. I don’t – I’m sorry, I’m don’t know how to – “

“Dean,” Cas says, and each time Cas pronounces Dean’s name he thinks there can’t be a new way to say it and each time Cas finds a new one. It’s like each emotion is a flavor and each time Cas says “Dean” he mixes the flavors a new way and each time it’s a different mix of hope and despair, adoration and prayer, anger and kindness, curiosity and frustration. This particular “Dean” seems to encompass them all.

“Cas, I’d just, I’d rather, well, endure the pain then ask for it to stop.”

Cas looks at him.

“You’re not in Hell anymore, Dean. You’re allowed to make it stop.”

The words hang between them for a few seconds, as if gravity were suspended.

Dean closes his eyes. It’s easier that way, so much easier to talk without having to look at Cas’ face, just speaking into the darkness, into the void, as if maybe there’s no one there to hear them and then he doesn’t have to own up to the confession because nobody’s heard it.

“It’s not just that Cas, though that’s a part of it. It’s that – I’ve always had to be strong. I’ve always had to put up with it and endure it and that’s who I am and that’s the only strength I see in myself and I can’t give that up. I have to remind myself that I can hold out, at least for a little, that I don’t break easily, because otherwise I just can’t forget how weak I am.” The words spill out, one sentence dragging the next out with it, the entire revelation one continuous thing that he can’t split into pieces so he has to say it all, as much as he hates it.

He feels Castiel’s fingers ghosting over his skin, healing each cut. He realizes he can move again, reaches out to grab Castiel’s hand.

“No….leave them,” he says.

Castiel looks down at Dean’s skin, the new cuts he’s inflicted mixed with the old, scars from knives and guns and goodness knows what else. He’d healed Dean’s body when he brought Dean back, made every scar and mark disappear, but there were already new ones to replace the old, reminders of a hunter’s life. Sometimes he got the impression that Dean hid behind them like a shield, all of the pain he’d had inflicted on his body some kind of armor against those who’d call him weak.

Castiel gets angry then. Actually angry. Not the kind of play-angry they’d been enacting to make the scene work, the fake-angry that scenes like that ran on. No, he was pissed. Pissed like he’d been in that alleyway when he beaten the living daylights out of Dean. And, possibly, pissed the way he’d been when Dean had been unimpressed by God’s “mysterious ways” long ago.

“You fucking son of a bitch,” Castiel says, borrowing Dean’s expression. It feels out of place on Castiel’s lips, and yet his anger feels so right.

He hurts Dean then. Actually hurts, intentionally. It doesn’t leave any kind of mark; it’s nothing but a thought, fuelled by anger, but suddenly Dean’s screaming, his entire body on fire, a kind of pain that actually takes him back to Hell and to Alastair and to the rack. He screams until he’s hoarse and somehow he manages to choke out Castiel’s name in the process. He’s tearing at his skin and shaking but he doesn’t break – no, Castiel doesn’t like that word, because it’s not breaking, it’s not surrender, not really, it’s human to have limits. Still, he won’t make it stop even then. Castiel pushes harder, rage still fuelling everything, until Dean’s voice breaks from the screaming.

“Is this what you want, Dean?” Castiel asks, his voice just on the edge of dangerous, his words hanging in the air, punctuated by Dean’s attempts to scream as his throat refuses to oblige. Unable to speak, Dean shakes his head, just barely, eyes still closed, unable to look at Cas. Cas stops, retreats, lets Dean’s body go and it collapses (as much as an already-prone figure can collapse), panting. 

“I can easily hurt you, Dean. But I would take no pleasure in the act and you would not deserve it. You do not deserve to suffer. You deserve to be saved.”

Dean turned his head away, refusing to look at Cas.

“Cas, please, stop it – “he whispers, before realizing the words he’s allowed to escape.

Castiel smirks.

“No,” he continues. “You deserve to be saved, Dean. And I will repeat it to you every single God-given day if I have to until you get it through your thick Winchester skull.” He leans down, whispering in Dean’s ear menacingly.

“You deserve to be saved.”

“Cas…” it’s a desperate word that Dean drops with the last of his strength.

Cas takes mercy on him; he says nothing more, but leans down, kissing the Winchester slowly, tenderly, hands caressing the hunter’s body, healing all the cuts he’d made. Dean barely notices Castiel’s fingers, losing himself in the angel’s kiss. Castiel pulls away slowly, savoring the last vestiges of the kiss before running his lips down to Dean’s chin, down the curve of his neck to his shoulder, covered in blood a few seconds ago and yet the skin now pristine. He kisses and kisses, covering every inch of Dean’s torso, his lips delicate and worshipping, all the way down to Dean’s cock, which he treats with the same adoration, covering every inch with kisses. Dean squirms, wanting more, and Castiel takes him in his mouth. That skilled, angelic mouth; Cas has mastered every trick quickly, learning each thing his mouth could do for Dean with love and devotion. He can be gentle and rough, slow and quick, bringing Dean to climax within minutes or dragging the experience out. He seems able to read the exact thing Dean needs in the lines of his body every time, and he always follows the commands written there with angelic obedience.

He takes his time today, as if intent on making up for pain with joy. Atoning for his mistakes with prayers he traces out with his tongue, kisses he places with his lips, confessions he makes known with his mouth and his hands. He takes Dean deep, savoring the feeling of being filled and the moans that come from Dean’s throat, moves up and down slowly, head bowed as if in prayer and eyes lowered as if in devotion.

Dean is close – he can feel it, sense in in the way his hips jerk up, in the tension in certain muscles. Dean doesn’t need to warn him; he knows. He closes his mouth around Dean’s cock as Dean reaches climax, drinking down every drop as if it were the wine of communion.

He pulls away, making his way gracefully up Dean’s body to his mouth, claiming his mouth for one more kiss. Dean’s still hoarse, but there aren’t many words he’d want to say anyway. His hand finds its way to Castiel’s cock – still hard through it all, and Dean marvels at his endurance and his stamina and feels a pang of guilt as he reminds himself that Castiel’s held out all this time for him. “Let me,” he says hoarsely, his hand moving expertly up and down Castiel’s length. For the first time that evening, Castiel lets himself lie back and relax, lets Dean take care of him. Dean’s hand is practiced and it’s not long before he’s coming too, his mouth releasing an angelic “oh” as he climaxes.

Dean rolls over to his side; his body, healed by Castiel, isn’t protesting, and it feels strange to feel so new, so fresh. He almost regrets the lack of ache and soreness in his muscles. But he’s sure he can convince Castiel to give this thing another try, tone it down, perhaps, use real implements instead of his angel powers. And with that comforting though he drapes an arm over Castiel’s chest and drifts off to sleep. They’ll talk about it in the morning.


End file.
